hour’s time I want a woman brought to my suite, do you understand? The maid who works here will do. Get her at once and bring her to me in an hour’s time.”
The sentry grinned uneasily. “Yes, your Excellency.”
Fuentes looked at him. “If you touch her during that hour I will personally attend to your punishment. See that she is clean and wearing clean clothes when you bring her. Now, send the Lieutenant to me.”
He turned and walked back to his room with quick, impatient steps.
4
The small ornate clock on the mantelpiece struck nine o’clock sharply. Faint sounds of distant shouting and an occasional shot drifted in through the open windows. Morecombre sat on the floor, his back to the room, looking into the darkness. He had not moved for half an hour.
Quentin, in shirt-sleeves and his collar open, paced the room with long strides. Cigarette-butts piled in the fireplace. Every now and then he glanced across at Myra, who lay asleep on the divan. He thought she looked very tired, drawn and defenceless, now that her features were relaxed. He crossed over to Morecombre and stood behind him, looking out into the night.
“We’re in a jam, Bill,” he said, very softly; “we’ve got to do something before the night’s out.” He looked over his shoulder at the sleeping girl. “She was lucky to get away with it this time, but tomorrow will be a different story. We ought to try to get her out of this.”
Morecombre grunted. “You mean shooting our way through hordes of soldiers like they do on the movies?”
“Along those lines.”
“We two mugs protecting her from a hail of lead with our big, sunburnt bodies—huh?”
“Something like that.”
“O.K., if that’s the way you feel. I guess I’ve had enough of newspaper work. Maybe heaven won’t be so bad,” he laughed. “I wonder if angels take their wings off when they go to bed. It would rather restrict one if they didn’t.”
Quentin lit a cigarette. “The consul’s about a half mile from here. It Will be tricky going, but that’s where we’ve got to take her.”
Morecombre stood up. “When do we go?”
“After midnight, I think. We might stand a chance of surprising the guards.”
A sudden wild frightened scream made them swing round. Myra also sat up with a start. “What was that?” she asked, her voice going off key.
Quentin went to the door and jerked it open. As he did so the scream was repeated. It came from upstairs. The sentry outside the door threatened him with his rifle. “Get back into your room,” he said.
Quentin took no notice, he stood staring upwards. At the head of the staircase, with her back to him, stood Anita. She was naked.
Facing her was a gigantic negro soldier. He held a rifle and face almost split in two by a jeering grin. He held a rifle and bayonet and the long glittering blade hovered within a foot of her.
Before Quentin could move he heard a voice say impatiently, “Go on, you fool, finish her.” He recognized the dry, harsh voice of Fuentes. His hand swung to his hip pocket, but the sentry hit him very hard on his chest with the butt of the rifle, sending him staggering back against Morecombre, who had crowded up behind him.
They heard Anita give another terrified scream. They saw her catch the blade as the negro drove at her. They saw her hands sliding along the blade and the blood, as the sharp bayonet opened her palms, running down her wrists, then the point of the blade struck her in the middle of her chest with incredible force, and three inches of red steel protruded from her back. Still grinning, the negro held the rifle steady so that she could not fall. Her knees went and her hands beat feebly against the barrel of the rifle, but he still held her, rolling his great black eyes and laughing at her.
Quentin regained his balance. The sentry had drawn back, his finger curled round the trigger of his rifle. “Get back!” he said savagely. “Get back!”
As Anita fell, the negro shoved out his foot and kicked her off the bayonet. It was a tremendous kick and it sent her crashing down the stairs. Her body thudded to the floor almost at Quentin’s feet. The sentry took his eyes off Quentin for a moment to gape at her. Quentin didn’t hesitate, his hand flashed to his pocket and with one movement shot the sentry between his eyes. The big negro, hearing the shot, came charging to the top of the stairs and Quentin fired again. The negro gave a startled grunt, put both his hands to his belly and sat down heavily on the floor.
One glance at Anita was sufficient. She was pathetically, horribly dead. Quentin spun round. “Let’s go,” he said; “no time like the present.”
“I’ll take the rifle and go first,” Morecombre said, stepping forward. “You bring Miss Arnold and cover the rear.”
Before Quentin could protest, Morecombre was already off down the corridor.
Quentin said sharply, “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Myra came to the doorway, very white, but steady. He grabbed her arm and bustled her past the two bodies. His face was set and grim. He knew this wasn’t going to be a picnic.
Morecombre had already reached the head of the stairs. Faintly they could hear the General shouting, and as Morecombre took one step down, a soldier came dashing to the foot of the stairs. Holding the rifle at his waist, Morecombre fired at him. The rifle kicked up, and the bullet swished over the soldier’s head. As Morecombre fumbled at the bolt, Quentin came up behind him and shot the soldier as he was about to fire in his turn. “Use your gun,” he snapped. “You ain’t used to a rifle.”
“You’re telling me,” Morecombre said, wiping the sweat from his face. He dropped the rifle with a clatter, and pulled a police .38 special from his hip pocket. They got down the next flight of stairs into the lobby of the hotel before three soldiers and a sergeant appeared from out of a side room. Two of the soldiers fired point-blank at them. Quentin felt the wind for a bullet against his face, and he fired with Morecombre. Two of the soldiers pitched forward, and the sergeant was shot through the arm. He turned and ran back into the room, shouting at the top of his voice.
Morecombre said: “Go down to the cellar—you won’t get out any other way. They can’t get you there… I’ve seen it.” He swayed on his feet.
Quentin ran to him. “Are you hurt?” he asked, taking his arm.
Morecombre’s legs folded up under him and Quentin had to lower him to the floor. “What is it?” he asked, bending over him.
“Go on—go on, you nut,” Morecombre said faintly, “don’t worry about me. Get the girl away.” He pressed his hands to his chest and Quentin could see blood oozing through his fingers.
“Keep your hair on,” he said gently. “We’ll go together. Put your arm round my neck.”
“For Christ’s sake leave me alone,” Morecombre said, his voice breaking into a sob. “Clear off—they can’t do anything to me… Get the girl….”
“Damn the girl!” Quentin said savagely. “I’m not going to leave you.” He stooped, and with a tremendous effort lifted Morecombre and took two staggering steps towards the back of the elevator which screened the service stairs. “Get down quick … go first,” he gasped to Myra.
She snatched up Morecombre’s gun which had fallen on the floor and stood watching the door through which the soldier had disappeared. Quentin staggered on. He knew it would only waste time if he argued. Morecombre suddenly stiffened in his arms and then went limp, upsetting Quentin’s balance and bringing him to his knees. One look at Morecombre’s face was sufficient. Quentin laid him on the floor gently, and then, rising, ran back to Myra. “He’s gone,” he said. “Come on, for God’s sake.”
Together they ran down the dark stairs into the basement. As they reached the bottom of the stairs they heard a heavy pounding of feet overhead. Taking Myra’s arm, Quentin hustled her along the stone corridor, down another flight of stone steps into the cellar. The entrance to the cellar was low and narrow. Only one person could enter at a time. It was an ideal place for a siege.
